Page 36 of Copper Script
“I have, yes.I’ve also had several people turn me down for jobs because why would they give themselves the mild inconvenience when there’s so many two-handed people available?”
“Supporting our wounded heroes is one of many things that people feel passionately must be done, by somebody else.”
“Ha,” Joel said.“I realise I’ve got to get used to where I am.I don’t want to be the bereaved person who insists there’s still hope, and becomes prey to quackery at every turn.It’s not going to grow back.But theyareinventing all sorts of clever new devices—God knows there’s no lack of a market—so I intend to try for something better than I’ve got.That’s all.”
“Good for you,” Fowler said.“Damned good for you.”
He extended his pint glass.Joel tapped it with his own.They both drank, Joel contemplating his glass furiously because he’d given away perhaps a bit more than he’d wanted to.
He hated his self-consciousness about his injury, so he tried to act as if he didn’t feel it, including refusing to wear a wooden hand to fill out the empty sleeve-end.He would gladly thump anyone who sneered at the hook, even while it gave him the horrors.He hadn’t told anybody except his doctor about his plans to get hold of the German device, becauseI want a working wooden handsounded like the stuff of fantasy.
And he’d just blurted it all out to Fowler.Prick.
They sat in the kind of silence you might expect when one party had just dumped a great lot of feelings on the table and the second party had no reason to care.Or at least that was how Joel felt, and he couldn’t seem to find a way back into the conversation.They’d been doing fine before—two pints’ worth of fine, chatting about this and that, sharing funny stories—and if his bloody hand had ruined it, he was going to kick himself for a week.
Then Fowler said, “So will you do it?”
“Do—?”
“The test.”He paused, then added, “I wish you would.”
“Because?”Joel said, and then, “Because you still don’t trust me.Not ‘still’.I mean, you don’t trust me.It’s always in the back of your mind that you think I’m a liar or a cheat or some kind of Svengali genius capable of setting up an elaborate deception scheme.”
“Not the last one.I’ve discarded that possibility.”
Joel eyed him malevolently.“I hope that was a compliment.”
“Look, you’re right,” Fowler said.“I can’t trust you, or I can’t quite trust you, not because of you, but because of what you purport to do.I’d like to believe it’s not a fraud, very much.”That had a ring of truth, and more than truth.It sounded almost yearning, and Fowler paused for a second before he went on.“But as you said, believing things because one would like them to be true is a fool’s game.So I hope you will do the test.I would like you to show me beyond all doubt that you really do have this remarkable gift, because then I will know how to think about you.”
“And where does that take us?”Joel asked, and the words came out challenging.“If you decide you can trust me—what happens then, Mr.Detective Sergeant?”
Fowler gave a little inhalation, just audible.Their eyes were locked.“Then, I suppose, we could address the fact that you don’t trust me.”
Joel paused on that for a moment, and finally said, “It’s not personal.”
“You have reason to distrust the police.I grasp that.”
I think you’re all right, Joel wanted to say.I really do.It’s just the little voice at the back of my mind, the one that told me to keep low on the battlefield, reminding me how fucked I could be if you’re not.
He met Fowler’s gaze, deliberately.He picked up his pint and drained it, gulping the beer down, then put it on the table with a decisive clink.
“Sod it,” he said.“I’m in.”
***
IT FELT A BIT OF ANanticlimax that he then had to wait over a week to hear anything more.
It was fine.He worked hard on the writing, and found he was adjusting to the drag and weight and inflexibility of the hook to the point where his handwriting was looking almost respectable.He did a lot of arm exercises, and he saw a fair few clients.His bank balance ticked gently upwards.Not fast enough—it might be two or three years yet—but if he became more widely known he could perhaps increase his rates.Or even get a steady income.Consultant to the Metropolitan Policedrifted across his mind a couple of times.
And then Fowlerfinallysent him a note, making a three-hour appointment, and Joel tried very hard not to feel excited.
There would be eight papers to look through.Fowler would attend and write down his impressions, which he guaranteed would not be shown to anyone until the case was concluded, or used for any purpose but the test.It was a very professional note, written by hand.Joel read it about six times, sinking into the black letters, feeling the maelstrom of Fowler’s tensions and wants, and then gave up, rolled onto his bed, and put his right hand to urgent use.It still didn’t feel as good as the left had, but if anyone did a prosthetic for that specific function, Joel hadn’t heard about it.
He was undeniably nervous when Fowler arrived for their appointment on a dark grey Thursday afternoon.He hadn’t bought a new shirt or anything stupid like that, but he might have got his hair cut, and had a decent shave while he was there.He wanted to look good, and he wanted to get this right.
Not just for Fowler either.If he was deluding himself and simply making up his responses to handwriting he should know.He probably wouldn’t stop doing it, because what the blazes else was he to do, but he should know.
Fowler arrived right on time, of course.Joel couldn’t prevent himself smiling.“Hello, Detective Sergeant.”
